The purest love
by Lolryne
Summary: Watson gets arrested for sodomy and is sent to do hard labor. Holmes, asexual but in love with Watson, falls apart without his friend.


Made for a prompt on the Shkinkmeme's livejournal community :)

**The purest love**

Holmes understood everything. It was his job, as a consultive detective, to understand, to know everything about the human nature. It didn't really matter that he didn't feel the same way than others did, that he couldn't feel what others were feeling as soon as it involved sex.  
It didn't matter, because he was quite sure other people weren't able to feel as he was feeling himself neither.

Holmes didn't understand why sex was such a big deal for everyone else. Why it was such a big thing when someone put his hand above another knee, or why others wanted to kiss so badly, among other things. He had tried himself, once, just thinking that the secret of it would reveal itself to him then, that he would understand, truly understand, what was so amazing in it. It wasn't amazing. Not at all. It was wrong, and disgusting, and he had hated the feeling of lips against his, the sensation of somebody being _too close_ to him, he had merely felt sick when the other tongue had met his, and he had shivered with revulsion when hands had brushed his nipples. He had waited for the awesomeness to come, but it hadn't, and quickly it had been more than he could bear, so he had stopped. He had stopped, left, gone home, and cleaned himself there, for so long that Watson had actually asked him if he was alright.

Watson loved sex, Holmes could tell. Not that they talked about it together, of course they didn't -because sex was not a thing to talk about, it seemed- but Watson was just like everyone else. He liked it when those men he was seeing in secret were whispering at his ear, hands on his hips. He liked it when their mouths were meeting, when they were touching each others in a dark alley, in the middle of the night. He liked all of it, and while Holmes couldn't understand, it was a bittersweet sight to look at from the spot where he was hiding, because Watson was feeling good, and that was enough for Holmes to feel happy himself, even if he wished he would have been the one to give Watson what he needed.

It would have been fairer, indeed, if Holmes had been the one to make Watson happy this way, because Watson was making Holmes happy.

All the time, every day, he was making him happy beyond reason and logic, beyond everything. He was just there, talking, smiling at him, sighing at his eccentricities, looking after him, caring about him, and this, this was enough for Holmes to feel more happy than he certainly was supposed to. Just to be with Watson was enough to make the world a very nice place to live in. Just to be the one Watson asked for when he wanted to go to the restaurant, or to the opera, was enough to give his life a sense. Just to be the one Watson lived with and talked to everyday was enough to make him feel lucky, and he wouldn't have changed his life for anything if it meant to lose it. It was a heat inside of him, a restrained smile burning him every time Watson was laughing at a joke they had just made, a sensation of walking a few centimeters above the ground _every-bloody-time_ Watson was saying something nice to him. It was the sweetest feeling when, coming back from a case, he was falling asleep in the cab and Watson was putting his jacket on him, his jacket which smelled like him, and gently brushed his hair, allowing him to put his head on his shoulder.

Meeting Watson was the best thing which had happened to Holmes, as long as he was able to remember. He didn't really believe in things such as destiny, of course it had been an accident that they met. But it had been the most amazing accident, and Holmes often wondered what his life would have been if he hadn't met Watson. It would have been boring, and grey, he supposed.

They loved each other. In a silly way, he was sure, in a silly, ridiculous, prudish way, but it didn't matter, because it was pure, too, and stronger than anything else. It didn't matter how ridiculous they looked as long as they were together, it didn't matter if Watson was seeing other men, it didn't matter if they never told each other "I love you". It didn't matter, because they were both aware of how important they were to the other, and that only mattered. Life was worth everything, as long as they were together.

They kissed once, at the end of an evening Holmes had spent cuddling against Watson. Only once, because it hadn't worked, no matter how Holmes desperately wanted for it to work. It had felt wrong and right at the same time, wrong because he still was unable to bear that intrusion in his personal space, and right because he had knew how much Watson wanted it. He had understood how uncontrollable these urges were for him, and he had guessed from the passion of the kiss how long Watson had been waiting for it to actually happen. But it hadn't worked, and Holmes had felt guiltier than he ever had the moment he had seen the hiding resignation in Watson's eyes. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that he couldn't even manage to give that little back to Watson.

Watson had pretended it was alright. He had smiled and said that it truly didn't matter, but it had been a lie. They had cuddled a bit more, but it had been awkward, Watson's longing hadn't calm down, and Holmes had been to the edge to kiss him again, to do what was needed, when Watson had apologized and left. He hadn't returned before late at night. Holmes had waited, but hadn't dare to join him in his room. He had played violin instead, and the next day Watson had asked him if he wanted to go to the Opera. It took a few days for everything to become as easy as it always had been, but it did so eventually.

Nothing changed, and it was both a relief and a heartbreak that Watson didn't ask for anything more that what they already shared.

They were happy. It wasn't normal, it certainly wasn't right, but they were happy to live together, and it seemed to be enough.

Holmes had always known that sex between men was illegal. He had always known what Watson was risking every time he disappeared with a man. That was why he followed him, every time, making sure he wouldn't see him because he was quite sure Watson wouldn't like a witness for his nights with his lovers. But Holmes followed anyway, making sure nobody else would know, making sure Watson wouldn't get caught.

They had talked about it, one morning, after one of Watson's lovers had left Baker Street. Watson had returned to bed almost immediately and Holmes had joined him, sitting on the mattress next to him, still shirtless from his own night. It was easy to pretend that he was the one who had shared Watson's bed, then. It was easy to pretend, when Watson was looking at him with daydreaming eyes and a smile, that he was the one who had been giving him pleasure. They had remained silent a long time, and it had felt good, it had felt cozy and right, because it was just the two of them. Because there was something in the air when Watson was there which made him feel safe. Watson's smiles were warm, and genuine. Holmes didn't get how it was that people would have want to harm him if they had known what he was doing, he didn't get how it was that they would have think that all of it was wrong. Holmes disliked the idea of sex alone, he truly disliked it, but yet he didn't think what Watson was doing was wrong, or evil. Watson was anything but evil, everyone who had met him once could tell that for sure. So if Watson was doing this, it wasn't evil neither.

"You have been reckless lately, mother hen," he had whispered, and Watson hadn't answered, keeping his eyes shut. "Is it worth it, at least?"

"Yes," he had muttered back after a while, "I think it is."

They both were the slaves of their own feelings, this way, Holmes unable to want other men to touch him, and Watson unable not to want to. Those things were just above their controls, and they had stopped trying to fight against it. They were living with the plenty knowledge of what a strange couple they were making, but they were okay this way, so it was all good. Holmes had laid at Watson's side, near but without actually touching him, coming under the covers, and they had kept still there for a while, half-sleeping and lazy. Comfortable.

Holmes had always known that sex between men was illegal. He had always known what was the price to pay if you were caught. He had always known that Watson was aware of that risk he was taking, too, and that he was prepared for the worst already.

It hadn't made it easier.

The day policemen came to arrest him, the day they put handcuffs at his wrists and asked him to follow them, it hadn't made it easier in the slightest. It hadn't prevented him from yelling at the constables who were holding him, at Watson who was keeping too calm, resigned already, not listening to Holmes' orders to escape, to fight, to _do something_. It hadn't prevented his heart from breaking, it hadn't prevented the rage from coming, it hadn't prevented the pain.

Holmes didn't know about sex, but he knew about blind love and about pain, he knew very well about it.

The days which followed certainly were the worst that Holmes never lived. Watson's judgment took a week, a whole week during which Lestrades helped Watson's lawyer, trying to convince the judge to spare the doctor, because he had always been a precious ally to the Police. He had helped them with many cases, put himself in danger in the only goal to help the justice, was a decorated soldier who had bravely fought for the Queen, and never did commit a single crime! And while Holmes couldn't help the hope, Watson kept quiet the whole time, only answering to Holmes' encouragements with faithless smiles the moments his friend managed to see him, after hours of process.

It was weird as all these things Watson had done didn't seem to matter at all, in the end.

The sentence fell after a week: Doctor John H. Watson was condemned to eight years of hard labor. Eight years. It didn't really matter how Watson was prepared for that, even he paled at the condemnation. They both knew how his body had been too broken by the war already to stand eight years of hard labor.

But it was over, it was the judge's final word, and Watson hadn't protested the moment the policemen helped him to lift, his legs just a bit too weak to do the movement alone. Holmes had remained still and silent, watching Watson leaving, unable to speak, to move, to just make a coherent thought.

Because it couldn't be, could it? _Hello_, when exactly did the world go crazy? Come on, had everyone lost his mind? Watson condemned, this was just ridiculous. There was a nonsense here, something quite big, certainly someone would _notice_, certainly someone would do a remark about it?

No one did.

No one did, and people vacated the premises, leaving Holmes alone in the room, sitting at the same post, immobilized by the chock. Lestrades came eventually and gently encouraged him – or told him a few things with a nice voice, which was really weird too, but Holmes wasn't sure about what he was saying exactly anyway. Hands took him and helped him to rise, helped him to stay on his feet, to walk away. Holmes didn't protest. He was quite sure he would have fallen had the hands released him.

What happened next, he was not really sure about. They refused to let him see Watson, or Watson refused to see him. And the next morning someone told him he was gone already.

He was gone, and so things were over, because he was gone and he wouldn't come back before eight years, if he returned at all. He was gone and he would certainly die where they were sending him, because his bloody leg just wouldn't stand it. They had sent Watson to a slow death.

They had sent Watson to a slow death.

The sentence kept running in his head, over and over, driving him crazy, and nothing helped. Neither the cocaine nor Gladstone's comings and goings filled the sudden emptiness of the house, and no more did the violin nor Holmes' shouts covered the crazy silence.

They all left him alone at first, thinking he would need time to accept the situation, maybe even thinking things would get better eventually. They let him yell at them without responding, patient and understanding, they let him break everything he wanted to break without a flinch, and even if all these humors were too much for her, even if it was making her almost cry every time Holmes was mad at her, Mrs Hudson did her best to take care of him.

Holmes hadn't real friends, his only real friend had always been Watson, but still the landlady and Lestrades tried to look after him. Because never before did they see him like that. Never before did they see him that vulnerable, that desperate, that torn. There was nothing left of the great detective, of the heartless genius Holmes used to be. A few days had been enough to turn him in another man, a man suffocating, stifling, drowning in despair, screaming endlessly at anyone, longing for hard fights, overflowing with rage.

It never stopped.

He didn't seem to sleep anymore, he didn't even seem to stay still anymore. The nights were full of noises, of his insane mumblings and of him pacing up and down, of the frantic sound of his violin, of things breaking and, from time to time, of his sharp, crazy laugh. Mrs Hudson listened to all of it, and it seemed to her that the world had turned mad, that everything was dark and senseless, now, without the doctor. Holmes stopped eating, too. He didn't pay attention to the food she let for him, he didn't read his brother's telegraphs begging him to take care of himself. His whole body metamorphosed in less than a week, losing weight and humanity, and he became an awful sight to look at.

It didn't take long before they all understand that, if Watson wouldn't be able to survive hard labor, Holmes wouldn't be able to survive Watson's absence.

Exhaustion won over the rage, eventually, and it didn't get any better.

He slowly stopped yelling, until the day he stopped talking at all. He became less frenetic, until the day he finally sat on Watson's bed and didn't move at all anymore, holding his friend's jacket tight against his chest. He stopped looking at the others, he stopped seeing them, and when he finally closed his eyes, the scary thought came to Mrs Hudson that he would just let himself die there. She would find him in the morning, laying on the doctor's bed, the jacket against him, and he would be dead.

But he wasn't there, the morning after, neither was he anywhere in the house.

Holmes had left before the dawn, Watson's jacket on his shoulders, wandering barefooted into London's streets, ignoring the few drunk men haunting the place at that hour of the night. He had walked slowly, haggard and weak, until he got to the bar Watson used to go. It was full of noises, of lights and of people, of laughs and of rushes, just like it was before. It was strange, in Holmes' mind, that the place hadn't change in the slightest after Watson's departure, like Baker Street had. It was strange, and wrong, but it didn't really matter, now.

Holmes had never learned how to seduce people. He wasn't like Watson, he didn't know how to please others, how to hypnotize them. He knew nothing of these games of teasing, of these looks, of these hands brushing, almost too shyly in a place like that. He had never known about sex, as it had always scared him.

It didn't scare him that time.

It didn't scare him when he kissed the first man smiling at him, when a hand came to brush his body, when they escaped upstairs in a room. He wasn't afraid as their clothes fell on the ground and as the man held him firmly. It was disgusting, it was wrong, but it wasn't worse than what he was already feeling since Watson had gone. And if the man was confused at his partner's lack of erection, he didn't balk as Holmes pressed him to do it.

It hurt. That were the only thoughts Holmes managed to have, the whole time: 'it hurts', and 'that is what Watson has been doing, all this time'. He closed his eyes. Watson would have to find a way not to hurt him, he was sure. Maybe it would have been wrong, too, but Watson would have cared, and so it would have felt right anyway.

It didn't matter. He just did what he had to.

The police came the next morning into the bar to clean the place, as Holmes knew they always did. He waited for them, laying in the bed, the other man still asleep at his side, and didn't move when they came into the room. He let them put handcuffs on his wrists and lift him, let them do their job with an appreciative and sleepy smile. Things would get better, now.

His judgment took a week, too, and he didn't pay attention to Lestrades' attempt to help him or to the judge's reproaches. He slept and ate as much as he could, trying hard to look better before the sentence fell. He was impatient for it, he was longing for the trial to end, and certainly the judge had never seen someone with such a bright smile when he sentenced him to hard labor.

Watson wasn't happy to see him, he could tell. He was furious, in fact, and yelled at him, told him that he was thoughtless, that he was a bloody reckless _idiot_, and other things which could have hurt before, but not at this very moment. Holmes didn't even really listen to what the doctor told him, too busy to look at what he had become since the last time he had been able to see him.

He too had lost weight, and looked exhausted and feverish already, the limp of his leg worse than Holmes had never seen it. The skin of his bare chest had became darker from the sun, covered by some bruises and turned purple at his hip level, sign of the beginning of an infection. He looked awful, but he looked alive and proud anyway, standing straight as the soldier he used to be. Because he was a man of strength and of honor, and he would remain this way until the end, even if he had to die here, in this miserable place.

Holmes knew Watson had always thought that he should have died at War, that everything which came after was a gift that God had given to him by mistake. Maybe it was why he accepted his fate without complaining, maybe it seemed to be a fair end for him.

But Holmes being here wasn't fair, Holmes had nothing to do with his past or his sins, he had nothing to do with any of it, so that just wasn't right for Holmes to be here because of him! There were anger and guilt in Watson's endless reproaches, but even if he understood it, Holmes' mind didn't change.

He could deal with hard labor more than he could deal with a life without Watson.

He could deal with it, and the moment Watson finally calmed down, when he finally welcomed him to Hell with a sarcastic tone, Holmes just smiled.

Hell wasn't there, not for him. Hell, for Holmes, was everywhere but here, at his friend's side.

_Fin._


End file.
